


the capes and the cowls

by pdameron



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Alternate Universe - Vigilantes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-09-22 11:36:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17059061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pdameron/pseuds/pdameron
Summary: Flint doesn’t give much thought to Nighthawk when he first jumps onto the vigilante scene.Turns out, he should have.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> look i had this mental image of Luke Arnold in the Nightwing suit with his hair pulled back in a topknot and a little wispy curl sneaking out and this happened???
> 
> you don't really need to be familiar with the characters to read or enjoy the fic, but i think i made it pretty clear that Flint and Thomas's alter egos are based on Midnighter and Apollo, and Silver is based on Nightwing.

 

Flint doesn’t give much thought to Nighthawk when he first jumps onto the vigilante scene.

He’s been in the business long enough to know that more often than not these newbies are gone within the year, beaten down by the constant, relentless press of crime or too injured to go on or just plain dead. He doesn’t know shit about Nighthawk, nor does he care. If the kid sticks around long enough to become anyone of importance, he’s sure their paths will cross.

Thomas, on the other hand, is fascinated with him, as he is with virtually everything that pertains to their….night jobs. He forced them to join that fucking team a few years ago, and though the Consortium of Vigilantes has certainly made a huge difference when it comes to saving lives and kicking ass, Flint’s still annoyed that they’re technically on call every hour of the day.

Max had tapped them on _date night_ , for fucks sake, even though she _knows_ it’s on Thursday.

Flint’s just not much of a team player. He’s also pretty sure that the majority of the team in question doesn’t like him much, namely because his excessively violent reputation gives the rest of them a bad rap. Using deadly force is very much frowned upon in the Consortium of Vigilantes, but deadly force is kind of his _thing_.

Besides, he’s fairly certain that at least a few lowlifes haven’t survived Bonny’s dual blades.

It’s a double standard, really.

At any rate, Thomas loves being part of a team, especially such a “cool, edgy” one. The League of Justice is full of pompous, self-righteous know-it-alls, Thomas always says, and Flint never has the heart to remind him that he, too, is a pompous, self-righteous know-it-all.

He loves Thomas, but he’d thought the man was an arrogant, spoiled, son-of-a-bitch when they’d first met. A sexy one, but a son-of-a-bitch nonetheless (turns out it was more of a son-of-a-bastard situation, in the end).

“Do you think he chose it himself? Or did the papers give it to him, like they did Max?” Thomas asks over breakfast, gesturing to the blurry silhouette of Nighthawk on the front page of the _Times_.

“The Madame is a far more interesting name than Nighthawk, if you ask me,” Flint replies, sipping at his coffee disinterestedly. “Besides, we can’t all choose our pseudonyms, _Helios_.”

“It’s not my fault someone saw your fiery beard and decided to call you Flint. Nor is it my fault that reporter asked my name and I had an intelligent, appropriate answer.”

Helios  _is_ an appropriate name, given Thomas’s sun-related powers. Flint’s still annoyed about _his_ alias, given that his enhancements are entirely mind-based and have nothing to do with fire in the least. People always expect him to breathe flames or some shit, when all he’s got is an above-average IQ and a near manic ability to predict and strategize fights.

“You think he’s enhanced? Or just another particularly bendy do-gooder?”

Flint stands, moving to the entryway of their apartment to put on his shoes. “Thomas, I really don’t give a shit. Can we go? I’ve got to open up the store.”

Thomas groans, stretching his ridiculously long arms above his head. The movement exposes his toned belly, the vee of his hips, and for a moment Flint forgets all about his secondhand bookstore and the tired employee who’ll be waiting for him.

“What have I got today, do you remember?” Thomas asks, his tone purposefully casual. From the smirk on his face, though, Flint can tell he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Flint takes one last look at Thomas’s stomach, because - well, he _can_ , before answering. “Some interview? Something about tax reform?”

Thomas groans again, this time in irritation. “Fuck, with that boring chap from the Treasury,” he sighs, running a tired hand across his face. “At least the coffee’s good at the Walrus Cafe. Why we couldn’t meet in my office, I have no idea.”

“Well, not every story can be a thrilling expose. Maybe you should have stuck with the Lordship.”

 

 

*****

 

 

“He was really so cute, James,” Thomas repeats, pulling on his white and gold costume as Flint adjusts his cowl.

“The guy from the Treasury? I thought you said he was boring,” Flint opens their window, swinging out with ease and letting Thomas carry him to the roof. There are some benefits to having a husband who can fly, after all, and they mostly involve Flint not having to climb up brick walls.

They start their nightly patrol, Flint leaping from rooftop to rooftop as Thomas floats alongside him, glowing all the while. They make quite a pair: light and dark, day and night.

“No, not him. The barista. Weren’t you listening?”

Flint hadn’t been, but that’s because he’d thought Thomas was going to try to talk about taxes.

“Why should I care about a cute barista? There must be hundreds of them in this city alone.”

“This one was different, Ja - Flint. He was so bright, so clever. And his _hair_ , I - down there,” Thomas cuts himself off, all business at the sight of four men slowly closing in on a young woman in the alley below.

Before Flint and Thomas can jump down, a figure clad in black and blue leaps into the fray, standing between the woman and her would-be attackers.

“I’d be on your way if I were you, gents,” the man says, and in response one of the group starts swinging.

Thomas goes to help, but Flint holds him back. If the man in black is who Flint thinks he is, he wants to see what he’s capable of.

Nighthawk - for Flint grows more and more sure as he watches that this is him - doesn’t disappoint. His style of fighting is a bit more showy than Flint normally prefers, more acrobatic in nature than his usual brute force, but damn if it isn’t effective. The men are on their backs, groaning or unconscious, within minutes.

Flint, of course, makes note of his tactics, just in case they find themselves at odds in the future: he does a good job of hiding it, but to Flint’s trained eye it’s clear that Nighthawk favors his right leg in a fight; his long hair, pulled back in a tight bun at the back of his head, would be an easy weakness in a fight; and he’s reckless when it comes to facing two opponents at the same time - not ineffective, just reckless.

The girl runs away, and Nighthawk goes about tying the perpetrators to a nearby fire escape. Thomas decides, then, that this is the perfect time to introduce himself, flying down to land in front of him. Flint really has no choice but to follow.

Nighthawk immediately springs into a defensive position, before relaxing at the sight of Thomas. He has that effect on that people, both as Helios and as himself. Flint mostly just puts people on edge.

“You must be Nighthawk!” Thomas says cheerfully, extending his hand. Nighthawk takes it after a moment’s hesitation.

“Helios. It’s a pleasure to - _holy_ _shit_ , your hands are so _warm_ ,” Nighthawk gets distracted mid-sentence, staring down at their joined hands.

“He’s named after the god of the sun. What did you expect?” Flint interjects, once he’s taken note of all the distinguishing features on Nighthawk’s face: the sharpness of his jaw; the mole on his chin; the slight crookedness of his teeth; a particularly large freckle on his cheek. No older than 30. Flint can’t see his eyes, but with a mind like his he’s about 90% certain he could now identify Nighthawk on the street if they were to pass each other.

“Flint, I presume?” Nighthawk asks. “You’re shorter than I thought you’d be.”

“You’re one to talk,” Flint snaps back. He glances over at one of the unconscious men, and upon seeing that his fly is undone promptly shoots him in the head. Normally, he'd prefer to beat the shithead to death with a crowbar, or a baseball bat, or maybe even his bare hands, but he figures Thomas would want him to pay more attention to their new acquaintance.

Nighthawk jumps back, shouting in alarm, while Thomas just sighs.

“What the _fuck_ , Flint?” Nighthawk hollers.

“His zipper was down. He was going to rape that girl. They all were.” He cocks his gun again, but Nighthawk steps in front of him. Flint rolls his eyes, though he knows Nighthawk can’t see it under his cowl. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those vigilantes with a _code_ ,” he says with a sneer.

“Hardly. I’d be just as happy as you to see them dead. But seeing as I went to all that effort to tie them up for the authorities, and seeing as not killing keeps them mostly off my back…”

“You’d let scum like this live just because it’s more _convenient_ for you?” Flint snarls, but Nighthawk just shrugs.

“I call the police, they go to jail. Rapists aren’t particularly well liked in prison. At any rate, I know for a fact there are several warrants out for your arrest, and none for mine. I think we both know why.”

Flint bristles, but Thomas just laughs.

“He has a point, you know.”

There’s a sudden honk, the sound of sirens, and Nighthawk’s backing away, moving toward a different fire escape.

“Well, it was nice meeting you?” He doesn’t sound too sure about that. Flint’s fairly sure it was at least nice to meet Thomas. “See you around, I guess.”

With that, he leaps up, and in a series of unnecessary acrobatic flips and twirls, he’s gone.

“Damn, what an ass,” Thomas says with a low whistle. It’s not that Flint disagrees - the suit’s clearly reinforced lycra, clinging in all the right places, but…

“We don’t know if he’s enhanced. He could have heard you.”

“Do you think I care?”

 

 

*****

 

 

It takes two weeks for Thomas to drag Flint to the Walrus Cafe, chattering the whole way about the cute barista, who he’d taken pains to ensure was _actually_ as witty and charming as he’d seemed upon their first meeting.

“His name is John Silver, he’s working at the shop to make ends meet while he studies literature at uni - ”

“And his eyes are very blue, and his hair is very curly, yes I know. You’ve said.”

Honestly, if Flint weren’t so secure in their relationship - and if he weren’t so curious about this mysterious barista - he’d feel a little jealous. Still, Thomas hasn’t taken such an interest in another person in awhile; it’s worth a little extra effort, if it makes Thomas happy.

There’s only one man at the counter when they walk in, and he smiles broadly at the sight of Thomas, waving cheerfully. Flint can’t get a good look at him while they’re in line, but he can see that yes, he _is_ cute, and yes, his hair _is_ quite curly, and that he’s nicely toned under his button-down shirt.

Of course, the closer they get, the clearer Flint can see his face, and this is when his tactical mind throws a wrench in things.

Flint grabs Thomas’s arm, hissing under his breath. “That’s Nighthawk.”

There’s stubble grown over the distinguishing mole on his chin, and with his hair down it took a moment to make the connection, but Flint would be his life on it.

Thomas looks at him, incredulous. “James, I highly doubt that.”

Now it’s Flint’s turn to be incredulous. “When have I _ever_ been wrong before?”

“Well, the thing is - ”

Thomas has to cut himself off as they finally reach their turn to order, Silver giving him a fond sort of smile.

“Hey Thomas. This must be your husband, right? James?”

Flint isn’t listening, because he’s finally noticed the crutch under Silver’s arm. He leans over the counter - ignoring Thomas’s attempt to grab his sleeve and pull him back -  and frowns as he sees that Silver’s missing the lower part of his left leg.

 _“James,”_ Thomas chastises, sounding absolutely mortified, and Silver’s glare is withering.

“Dude, what the hell?”

Flint’s still not wrong, but this is an interesting development. It certainly explains why Nighthawk favors his right leg so much in battle.

“We’ll have two coffees. We’re going to sit right there,” Flint says, gesturing to an empty table in the back, “until you’re on break. Understand?”

Silver, still looking mildly offended, nods, probably just to get Thomas and his rude husband out of his hair.

It takes half an hour, but Silver finally makes his way over to their table, sitting next to Thomas with an irritated huff. He raises a brow at Flint, expectant.

Flint leans forward onto his eyebrows, endlessly curious.

“How do you keep your prosthetic in place when you fight? Surely the impact from some of those kicks you land would dislodge it.”

Silver blinks, taken aback, and he looks between Thomas and Flint warily. He goes from disbelief to curiosity to sudden, wide-eyed understanding rapidly.

Then he grins.

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

“He’s definitely interested,” Thomas remarks one night, turning his back so Flint can unzip his costume. 

“Silver?” Flint asks. “Maybe in you.”

For all that their paths cross fairly often in the evenings during patrol (usually intentionally on Thomas’s part), Flint doesn’t see as much of Silver as Thomas does. The cafe Silver works at is across the street from Thomas’s office, and he’s now made a habit of stopping in during his lunch break to chat. 

Flint only really sees him in between villain-punching. 

Which isn’t to say Silver hasn’t made an impression, little shit though he is. 

“Oh please,” Thomas replies, waving a hand dismissively. “We both know he’d fuck you in a heartbeat.”

Flint crawls into bed, curling onto his side so Thomas can wrap himself around him. 

(Jack had walked in on them once, asleep in HQ one night when they’d been too exhausted to make their way home, and had laughed himself silly at the thought of Big Bad Flint as the little spoon. Flint had gotten up only to kick him in the balls.)

“Well, if you’re so sure he’s interested, and if it’s what you really want, it’s fine with me.”

Thomas presses a kiss to the back of his neck, to an already healing bruise on his shoulder blade - thanks to their genetic enhancements, neither of them ever remain injured very long - and that appears to be that.

  
  


*****

 

Except nothing comes of it.

Nearly a month passes, and Silver just won’t take the bait. Flint knows Thomas is flirting, knows he isn’t being subtle, because in a moment of desperation he’d been called to the cafe over lunch so he could see what Thomas was doing wrong.

(Nothing. He’s doing nothing wrong. Thomas has done everything short of yelling “fuck me” in the crowded coffeeshop.)

When Thomas begins to grow concerned that he’s actually  _ harassing _ Silver, that Silver isn’t interested and is simply too polite to say anything, Flint takes matters into his own hands.

He waits until Thomas takes the night off from patrol, insisting that his husband was overworked and overtired. The truly disgusting cold Thomas has come down with makes it all too easy to push him into bed without a fight. 

After that, it’s a matter of ten minutes before he finds Silver, crouched on a rooftop. 

“Nighthawk.”

“Flint,” Silver replies, unruffled by his sudden appearance. They’re getting used to each other, falling into easy habits after nearly four months of patrolling together. Flint imagines Thomas would be pleased that even without him, Silver is still somewhat comfortable with Flint. 

Silver gestures to the group of men climbing out of an unmarked van, pulling on masks and heading toward the bank across the street. “Shall we?”

“After you.”

The fight is over almost as soon as it begins, each of them taking on two goons with little effort. Bank robbery isn’t enough to warrant deadly force, at least in Flint’s book, so he lets Silver tie their hands and call the authorities. 

Once they’re back in the rhythm of patrol, jumping (or sometimes grappling, in Silver’s case) from roof to roof, Flint makes his move.

“So. Thomas.”

Silver doesn’t stop moving, but he does slow down to indicate that he’s listening. 

“Does the flirting bother you?”

Silver laughs. “No, it doesn’t. It’s harmless, I know. You’re married; he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

He shoots out his grappling hook, swinging to the next building, and completely misses the sight of Flint burying his face in his hands in frustration. It takes almost no time for Flint to catch up, though, and he tries again.

“He  _ does _ mean it, though.”

Silver pauses, glancing at Flint incredulously. “And you’re fine with that?”

“Sure. I’m - ”

Silver lifts a hand, clearly having spotted something Flint’s missed, preoccupied as he is with their hopefully future sex life.

He drops down, and Flint decides to let him handle the mugging, taking the opportunity to just watch. Jesus, but that suit is  _ tight _ . If it weren’t for his cup, Flint’s fairly certain he’d be able to tell whether or not Silver is circumcised.

A panting Silver reappears five minutes later, looking slightly miffed that Flint hadn’t done anything. A single curl has come loose from his topknot; it’s extremely distracting.

“Anyway, I am too,” Flint says, as if they’d never been interrupted, and Silver shoots him a confused look as he starts moving again.

“You’re what?”

“Interested.”

Silver trips over nothing and falls flat on his face. 

Flint leans over Silver, smirking, as the younger man rolls onto his back with a groan. “Are we going to blame your lack of coordination on your missing leg or my sexual interest?”

Silver makes a strangled sort of noise, and if Flint were a guessing sort of man, he’d bet that his eyes were wide as saucers behind that domino mask.

“I - you - both of you? Really?”

“Yes, really.”

_ “Me?” _

Flint rolls his eyes, reaching down to help Silver up. “You’re a grad student studying oral traditions in ancient storytelling who moonlights as a sexy morally ambiguous vigilante. Of course we’re interested. You’re practically tailor-made for us.”

Silver looks like he’s been completely blindsided, like it had never occurred to him that someone might actually  _ want _ him. For someone who acts so cocky 90% of the time, he’s painfully unaware of his own appeal, it seems. 

“Look, you don’t have to make any decisions now. Go punch someone, work out your feelings, and let us know.”

Silver nods, almost to himself, and Flint begins to take his leave. Still, he might as well sweeten the deal.

“Oh, and by the way? I’m a natural born cocksucker.”

The high-pitched noise Silver makes has Flint cackling the whole way home.

  
  


*****

  
  


Again, nothing comes of it, but this time at least Flint can’t really blame Silver.

It’s not Silver’s fault The Governor’s goons went after Nighthawk.

It’s not Silver’s fault he got kidnapped not two days after their most recent patrol, on his own and without backup.

It’s Flint’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lil baby in between chapter! sorry it's so short.


	3. Chapter 3

*****   
  


 

Flint doesn’t realize anything’s wrong until the night after Silver is taken.

The worst part is, he wouldn’t have known at all. He wouldn’t have even thought to check on him. Flint would have just gone on patrol with Thomas, and they would have assumed Silver was just staying in that night. He does that, sometimes; his leg gets swollen from all the strain he puts on it, and he’ll have to take a night or two off.

It’s only when a dark-skinned woman in a domino mask (suspiciously similar to Silver’s) literally walks through their window, glass and all, that Flint and Thomas begin to think something might be off.

It’s lucky that the Shadow - Flint’s fairly certain it’s her, there are only so many vigilantes who can walk through walls - can phase, because the kettle Flint instinctually throws at her could have done some serious damage if it had actually made contact. 

“James, that’s the third kettle we’ll have to replace this  _ month _ ,” Thomas whines, unruffled as always by the comings and goings of other vigilantes and heroes and whatnot. He goes to cross the room, to either introduce himself or retrieve the kettle.

Shadow is unperturbed. “Nighthawk has been missing for eighteen hours.”

Thomas stops dead in his tracks. 

“How…?”

“He was due home at two o’clock last night. Seeing as his disappearance is almost definitely your fault, I thought you might be willing to aid in my search for him.”

“Our fault?” Flint questions.

She turns to him, pulling down her hood. She’s quite beautiful: dark skin; prominent cheekbones; dreadlocks pulled back in a low ponytail. Flint wonders briefly who she is to Silver, that she’d seek out two dangerous vigilantes - one a bit more dangerous than the other - just to get him back.

“He was keeping a low profile, before he met you two. Small time criminals, no big operations; like we agreed. But the two of you? You’re too well known not to draw attention. It was only a matter of time before someone took notice.”

“And you think this someone has taken John?”

“I know it. He would not simply disappear; not without telling me.” She moves back to the window. “The two of you have more resources at your disposal than I do on my own. Use them.”

With that, she’s gone, leaping out onto the fire escape. 

Thomas, too, springs into action, grabbing his costume and stepping into it in a rush.

“Who have we pissed off recently?” He asks, slipping his arms into the sleeves almost frantically.

Flint grabs his coat and his cowl, not bothering with the rest of his uniform for the night. 

“The Governor’s always pissed at us. We took down that drug smuggling operation last month, and there was the whole arms deal thing the month before.”

Flint’s barely got his foot out the window when Thomas grabs him, lifting him into a bridal carry and taking to the sky.

“Rogers is smart, but his men aren’t,” Flint continues, by now used to being manhandled by Thomas. “They always go to the same warehouses, down by the docks. Creatures of habit.”

Thomas dutifully alters his course - he’d been heading toward Rogers’s penthouse, no doubt to ‘question’ the Governor in person. This is perhaps the one time in their entire relationship in which Thomas had been the one thinking irrationally, acting out of anger rather than reason.

“James...do you think he’s….”

“No,” Flint replies immediately.

“You can’t know that,” Thomas responds, his voice tight. 

“I don’t think Silver would let himself be taken out by some two-bit thugs. He’s got too much pride for that.”

The laugh Thomas lets out is a forced, terribly strained thing. 

“God, I hope so.”

 

 

*****

 

  
  


It’s at the fifth of eight possible warehouses that Flint and Thomas find Silver, bruised and battered and chained to the  _ fucking _ wall. 

Well, half-chained; by the time they walk in, Silver’s got on arm free and is trying to uncuff his other. His ankle and false leg (still securely on under his suit, thank fuck) though are still trapped.

Silver freezes for a brief moment, but soon relaxes, slumping in relief at the sight of Flint and Thomas racing to his side. 

“They’ve only just left me alone,” Silver says as Flint kneels down to pick open the restraints on his ankles. “I should have tried to get myself out sooner, you shouldn’t have had to - ”

Thomas shushes him. “What are friends for, if not to save each other from our villain of the week?”

It becomes clear as soon as he’s freed that Silver can’t stand on his own; stumbling into Flint’s arms, clearly exhausted. He tries not to be too pleased that Silver trusts, without hesitation, that Flint will catch him.

But then he gets a good look at Silver’s face, and all that matters is the sudden rush of hot, protective rage surging through him.

Silver’s a mess: one of the lenses of his mask has been broken, revealing just part of one of his blue eyes; the cuts on his face are clearly the result of being hit with knuckle dusters; and his teeth are stained with blood. Flint doesn’t even want to think about what a mess of black and blue he must be under his costume.

“Where are they?”

“Left for a drink,” Silver replies. “I let them think I was unconscious, thinking they might let something slip about who they work for, and instead they took the opportunity to get hammered at the nearest bar. Unprofessional, really.”

“They’re going to get hammered, all right,” Flint mutters, passing Silver over and watching stonily as Thomas lifts him gingerly into his arms. 

“Oh,  _ hello _ super strength,” Silver says, smirking tiredly at Thomas. 

“Flint’s got it too, you know. So much to look forward to. Now, let’s get you home.”

Before Thomas can take off, though, Silver grabs Flint’s jacket, fisting the leather weakly. 

“I didn’t tell them anything,” he says, giving Flint an earnest, almost pleading look. “I wouldn’t.”

Flint exchanges a brief, worried glance with Thomas before resting his hand over Silver’s. “I know, Nighthawk.”

With that, Thomas takes off. Flint smirks at Silver’s startled yelp, and the sound of Thomas laughing in response, before he heads over and grabs a chair. He’ll be waiting a while for his targets to return, he expects. Flint has never been one to sit around and bide his time, but for once, he’s willing to twiddle his thumbs. 

For once, he’s feeling patient.

  
  


*****

 

 

Flint’s gloves leave smears of red on the windowsill as he crawls into their apartment, tired and slightly bruised but immensely satisfied. The screams of those thick-headed goons are still ringing pleasantly in his ears.

“Won’t it be hard to get the bloodstains out of all that leather?” 

Flint very nearly stumbles as he lands in their bedroom: he’d thought the lump on the bed was Thomas, not Silver. What is he  _ doing _ here?

“It’s not that bad, all things considered. The real trick is getting milk out. I’ve all but stopped drinking tea in uniform - too risky.”

Silver chuckles, then groans, rolling onto his back and clutching at his ribs. “Don’t make me laugh, dickhead.”

Flint sheds his coat and pulls off his cowl, then moves to sit next to Silver on the bed, turning on a lamp as he does. Silver’s shirtless now, burrowed under a pile of blankets, his hair loose and slightly damp. His ribs have been wrapped, Flint realizes, the bandages just slightly visible above the covers. 

Flint tries not to pay too much attention to the little mole above his right nipple, or the divot of his collarbones, or the way his hair brushes against his bare shoulders. This is a purely medical assessment. 

Silver shifts nervously under Flint’s scrutiny.

“They didn’t even try to take off my mask,” He says with a pout, no doubt trying to turn Flint’s attention away from his many injuries. “They just wanted to know about you guys. It was a little insulting, really.”

Flint chuckles, reaching over and tucking a loose curl behind Silver’s ear before he can think better of it. “Give it some time,  _ Nighthawk _ . Thomas and I have been doing this for a long time: we’ve made a lot of enemies. In six months, I’m sure your secret identity will be quite the commodity.”

“It’s not like I could have been much help, even if I had said anything. I don’t even know your last names,” Silver admits, fiddling with a loose string on the topmost quilt. It should seem like he’s fishing, like he’s trying to guilt Flint into telling him more about himself, but instead Silver just seems a bit lost.

He asks after Thomas, and Silver points in the direction of the kitchen. After making sure their houseguest doesn’t need anything, Flint goes in search of his husband. 

Sure enough, Thomas is standing at the counter, in his pajamas, making tea. Flint comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around Thomas’s lean middle. He’s not quite tall enough to rest his chin on Thomas’s shoulder, so he simply presses his face between his shoulder blades, breathing him in.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Flint prefaces his question, “but is there a reason Silver is in our bed and not his own?”

Thomas shrugs, leaning back into Flint’s embrace. “I wanted to make sure he was alright. Put our first aid kit to use, for once. And, frankly, I was worried to leave him alone, concussed as he is," He turns so Flint can get a good look at his salacious grin. "Did you know, he only wears a jockstrap under all that lycra?"

Now _there's_  an image worth pondering. Still, Flint is nothing if not task-oriented.

“What about the Shadow?”

“An ex, apparently. Silver called her, let her know he was safe.”

Flint hums thoughtfully. That must be some ex-girlfriend, to care so much about her former partner’s safety. If Max were told Eleanor had been kidnapped, Flint can’t imagine she’d be particularly concerned. At most, she’d text Flint. And if  _ Vane _ were ever kidnapped? Eleanor would probably send the kidnappers a gift basket.

“Did you take out your violent, protective instincts on the Governor’s men?” 

Another hum, this one more darkly satisfied. Flint sighs after a moment, pulling away to lean on against the counter next to Thomas.

“We’re in too deep, Thomas,” he says, though he doesn’t sound as worried as he thinks he should. “We’ve known him what, six months? And I’m already beheading people on his behalf.”

“That’s love, baby,” Thomas jokes, completely unconcerned. 

It’s not love, not yet, but Flint is genuinely worried that it could be. 

“He was kidnapped because of _us_ , Thomas. Because we got too close too soon.”

The kettle (apparently having survived its encounter with the Shadow) boils, and Thomas takes the opportunity to mull over his answer. For all that Thomas talks all the fucking time, in moments like these he’s surprisingly careful with his words.

It’s only after he pours out three cups of tea that Thomas speaks. “I know you feel guilty about what happened to John. So do I. But he’s a grown man, James. He’s more than capable of making his own decisions. Still, if you feel so strongly about it, I’m sure you can simply ask John if he resents us for his kidnapping.”

Flint nods, taking Silver’s cup wordlessly as it’s passed to him.

Thomas waits to make his parting shot as Flint turns to go back to their bedroom. He always has to have the last word, even with his husband. 

“Don’t think I’m not aware that you’re projecting your issues over Miranda’s death onto John. You’re not subtle, darling.”

Flint sighs, irritated but not surprised. The irritation fades as Thomas joins him, resting a hand on his back. Thomas is right, as usual, and Flint knows he hasn’t brought it up to be spiteful.

Silver’s sitting up when they come into the bedroom, kneading his blankets anxiously. Flint’s not sure he’s entirely aware that he’s doing it.

“You know, if you wanted to get in our bed, there were easier ways,” Thomas says, sitting next to Silver with a smile. “Getting kidnapped is quite a bit of extra effort. Next time, you can just ask.”

Flint lets out a snort, but Silver’s eyes widen in shock. 

“You mean you’d still want to? With me? You don’t think I’m…”

He trails off, but Flint doesn’t miss the glance he sends the prosthetic leg leaning against the wall nearby. He’d bet good money that Thomas didn’t miss it either. 

Thomas puts his tea to the side, and takes one of Silver’s hands in his own. “I think you’re wonderful. A little cagey, maybe, and a bit of a smart ass, but still wonderful. We wouldn’t think less of you over something so out of your control. Besides, getting kidnapped is practically a rite of passage in this business.”

Silver glances over at Flint, his nerves calmed but still present. “And you?”

“I think you’re a little shit, with enough baggage to match ours. But I’ve wanted to suck your cock since the night we met, so that has to count for something.”

Silver turns scarlet at that, but he can’t hide his pleased smile. “I might have to take a raincheck on the blowjob but - would you two stay with me? Just for tonight?”

“We’ll stay as long as you’d like,” Thomas replies easily, and Flint takes the opportunity to strip out of the rest of his clothes, getting ready to retire for the night.

By the time he returns to the bed, the other two are already spooned together, Thomas’s nose pressed into Silver’s hair and Silver looking at Flint in his briefs with hungry eyes. Flint flicks Silver’s nose - one of the few places he’s not bruised - with a grin. 

“Next time, Silver.”

He climbs in on Silver’s other side, letting the smaller man wrap his arms around his middle. It’s a small comfort, to feel Silver’s chest rise and fall, every breath a reminder that they got to him in time. 

“It’s McGraw, by the way,” Flint confesses after a moment. “My last name.”

He hasn’t thought of himself as James McGraw in a long time, if he’s being honest with himself. Most days, it feels like McGraw is the mask, and Flint is who he really is. Still, he owes this much to Silver, he feels. 

One day, he’s sure, he and Thomas will tell Silver everything: about Miranda; when the three of them were torn apart; the years of rage and unwarranted violence; the manner in which he and Thomas both received their powers….but that’s a story for another time, another night. 

With a strained grunt, Silver lifts himself onto an elbow, so he can look down at Flint. With a soft smile, he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to Flint’s lips. 

“If I tell you my last name is Hamilton, can I get a kiss too?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end, bitch! 
> 
> i like the idea of madi being able to phase through walls. something about breaking barriers or whatnot, you know?

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry i wrote this in a half-panic while i was avoiding studying for finals 
> 
> comments are appreciated but not demanded!
> 
> tumblr: slverjohn


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